There's Nothing Better to Do
I wear this shadow to disguise my stare.
Exhibiting voyeuristic behavior,
That finds me kneeling
Behind the groomed bushes.
Of Anywhere U.S.A.'s ranch style home.
Guided by the glowing light
Of her porcelain lamp,
A housewife rummages through her silverware.
Concerned of the cost
To replace her spoons.
After finding them
Stained from flame abuse.
In her daughter's underwear drawer.
She places her hands deep into dish water.
Emerges with bubble-chains on her wrists.
The shadow twitches
A vulnerable moment
Displays my honesty.
“I swear this is a prescription bottle
In my fingers...not my cock! ”
I turn my stare
To the television.
What the foolish call modern art,
Displaces beautiful lips
To burn dialogue.
In the ashes of useful tongues
We bathe our foreheads
In anticipation for Ash Wednesday.
The writers who slaved
For such a useless script,
Market the inspiration of Starbucks
Like Hemingway did tequila.
Share secrets with grass stains.
As she discovers that bubble-chains are fragile.
Along with the motivation
'Nothing better to do.'
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